Living for Death
by Sydella
Summary: The Varia are all familiar with Death...in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

As the leader of an elite assassination squad, Xanxus is no stranger to Death. He will never admit it to anyone, but his childhood memories are filled with the cries of dying beggars and fatally wounded orphans. In particular, he remembers the very first time he encountered Death.

The season was winter, with all the expected bitterness and chill associated with it. In the throes of suffering, those who could not afford well-made clothing and thick blankets huddled together, as if Death would overlook them if they were inconspicuous enough. Children and adults alike died like animals trapped in an airless room. At the age of nine, Xanxus was already going the way of the young and damned.

His relationship, if one could call it that, with Death began with his mother. Xanxus had always known that she would inevitably succumb to her madness and literally leave him out in the cold, but when the day finally came that he found himself hungry, tired and kept out of his own house, he was not prepared for the anguish and panic that overcame him.

"Mama! Mama!" he wailed, pounding on the door. But she never opened the door for him, and no warm, motherly embrace awaited him, no kind and wise eyes examined his young body for frostbite. For the first and only time in his life, Xanxus cried as he stumbled down the street. As the cold day drew to a close and turned into an even colder night, he crouched in a dark, filthy alley, shivering violently and waiting to die.

"Let me," he whispered to the swirling snowflakes and howling wind. "Let me die."

"Not yet," a voice said calmly from somewhere within the shadows. There was a rustling sound, and right before his eyes, Death appeared.

Xanxus had seen pictures of a tall, menacing figure enshrouded in a long, black cloak with a hood pulled up over a sinister, skeletal face. This apparition, however, looked rather different from depictions of it in popular imaginings. It shimmered and glowed, yet no light penetrated its form. It towered over Xanxus's prone form, yet also hunkered down beside him. It was an ancient black hole and a young, incandescent star; everything and nothing all at once.

"Who…you?" Xanxus croaked, although on some visceral level, he already knew the answer.

Death touched his face with a surprisingly warm hand. Instead of answering his question, Death simply said: "I will spare you for now. Cherish the life you have been given and do not hate your mother."

Xanxus closed his eyes. He was dreaming, he felt certain of it. Either that or he was already dead and heaven was for the delusional.

Night gave way to day again and Xanxus, who had fallen asleep at some point, woke to find himself lying in a clump of sunlit, melting snow. Somehow, spring had arrived early. He stood, brushing the snow off his clothes, and slowly walked back to his house, where he saw that a winter gale had blown the door off its hinges, once more granting him entry. On the threshold, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. Instinct told him that someone was watching him, but the street was empty except for a few of his neighbours nursing hot drinks and exchanging gossip.

Xanxus hesitated, shrugged and stepped into his house, closing the door behind him. On the roof of a nearby house, a raven cawed and cocked its head, gazing thoughtfully at the footprints Xanxus had left in the snow.


	2. Chapter 2

Superbi Squalo, emperor of swords and one of the many lords of the Italian underworld, embraced Death at the age of 12.

He had been out for a walk. As a new student at a Mafia-exclusive school, he was still adjusting to the routines of school life, and was wandering around the school compound to get some fresh air. Along the way, he came across a towering, rusty steel gate. Students were forbidden to try climbing it, but he had always been a daredevil and now he did his best to execute an acrobatic leap over it. However, his usual agility failed him for once and he landed in a crumpled heap, bones broken in some places and blood oozing from others. Despairing, Squalo tried to stand but his legs turned to jelly beneath him. And what was that unearthly ringing noise in his ears?

He tried to call out for help, but his normally thunderous voice was weakened in his condition and he slumped to the ground in defeat.

"Giving up so soon?" a gentle, unfamiliar voice asked from somewhere nearby.

Squalo narrowed his eyes and peered around, taking stock of his surroundings, but there was no one in sight. Then, in a dazzling display of light and darkness, Death came to him.

He recognised a fellow warrior when he saw one. A scabbard was strapped to Death's slender waist and a pale, ageless face peered at him. "There is much you must learn, shark pup," Death said, not unkindly. "I've taken a liking to you, so do not squander the chances I have decided to give you. We will meet thrice more before the final time." Without another word, Squalo found himself in a terribly cold and strong embrace. Before he knew it, Death had left him.

Squalo tried to stand again, and this time, he found that his legs were working properly. Feeling a little strange, as if the world had been knocked off its axis, he returned to his room, where Dino fussed over him. He tuned out the Bucking Horse's fretting and pondered the possibility that he had just had a near-death experience…literally. However, in the warm and bright sunshine streaming into the room, he felt certain that he had been hallucinating and thought no more of the incident for a while.

Years later, Squalo did indeed almost die three more times: first, in a battle he never expected to lose, then in a future he could never have predicted, and lastly in a war that had been raging since the early days of the Mafia. As an adult, he revisited his childhood encounter with Death again and again, always wondering if he had imagined it, or if the world was even stranger than he already knew it to be. After the last time, he lay in a hospital bed with an empty space where his heart should be. Dino came along to visit him.

"The doctors say your new heart's doing well," Dino remarked.

Squalo smiled grimly. "They would. Mammon is a powerful illusionist, after all."

Dino sighed and set a steaming plate of tuna carpaccio on a table beside Squalo's bed. "Well, don't worry. I hear that a donor has already been found. You'll be on your feet again in no time." The Cavallone don paused and looked intently at his long-time friend. "Thank the gods that you're still alive, Squalo."

Squalo took the plate and stared at the Italian dish he had loved for as far back as he could remember. Dino had a point-that Squalo, world-weary and battle-scarred swordsman that he was, should be grateful for being able to say that he had fought and lived to see another day, to eat tuna carpaccio and have a little quiet time with a dear friend. But the more he thought about it, the more Squalo knew that gods had nothing to do with keeping him alive. He shook his head and Dino gave him a questioning look.

"Whatever gods you're thinking of are not the reason I'm still alive," Squalo said quietly. "Not at all."


	3. Chapter 3

Lussuria loves Death and all it brings. All the cold, wasted, unmoving bodies at his disposal, for him to pleasure himself with. Of course, there's also the infamous, insane euphoria known as "Varia assassin mode". No one in the Varia is immune to such delicious insanity.

He's in his mid-thirties now and, when asked how and why he started killing for a living, breezily replies that Death itself showed him the way. To be precise, it all began when his intolerant and intolerable father sent him away, to a school in Thailand, of all places. "Wash the weakness out of you," his father had said with a cold smile, and that was the last time Lussuria ever saw the old man alive.

Lussuria found Thailand an intriguing place, to say the least. Once he got over an initial bout of culture shock, he gradually adjusted to the Land of Smiles. Crime was rampant there, as it was in Italy-in almost every part of the world, really. Lussuria took up Muay Thai to defend himself against violence in the country and in his school. One day, in an intense competition that had started out as a simple friendly match, Lussuria struck his opponent a little too hard, and was soon standing over a corpse.

He was frightened at first. What if someone found out about this? Lussuria did not fear criminal charges nearly as much as he feared being sent back to his father. _Please, anything but that. _Lussuria looked around frantically. No one had witnessed him commit manslaughter, but his crime was bound to be discovered sooner or later.

He returned his attention to the corpse. It had not yet begun to stink. In fact, lying there in the dim light of a room in an ill-equipped school, it somehow struck Lussuria as strangely attractive. He licked his lips. When this corpse had been a living, breathing human being, Lussuria had found the man attractive. Crushed on him, admired him from afar, and even stalked him. The man never gave Lussuria the time of day, of course. They had been worlds apart-one a scared boy trying to survive in a hostile country and the other a wealthy, influential businessman. But now…

Lussuria hunkered down beside the corpse. Surely it wouldn't hurt to be a little intimate with the object of his affections? Just once. Just a little touch here, a kiss there…nothing really wrong with that, right? After all, the man was dead now, and the dead can't protest. Slowly leaning forwards, Lussuria brushed a lock of hair away from the corpse's face and proceeded to give himself over to lustful pleasure.

When he'd finished, he felt torn between guilt and a sort of giddy, reckless happiness. At last, at last. Now he knew what it felt like to do _those _things, the stuff of the erotic novels he read voraciously and kept hidden from his overbearing father. There was no turning back now. He had successfully opened the door to adulthood, no matter how unorthodox his method. He couldn't help but feel pleased with himself.

"You're very pleased with yourself, aren't you?" a clear male voice, tinkling like bells, said calmly. Shocked, Lussuria whirled around and, upon finding himself face-to-face with an extraordinarily beautiful young man, went weak in the knees.

The youth spread his arms and declared grandly, "I am Death."

"Oh. Um." Lussuria stared at Death. "You're more…good-looking than I imagined."

"I can change my appearance at will," Death informed cheerily. "Depending on whom I'm speaking to, of course. More importantly, you've been a little naughty, haven't you?"

"Ah…" Lussuria fidgeted. "Well, you see, I…"

"Been taking liberties with someone who is already no longer of this world, haven't you?" Death gave him a shrewd, calculating look.

Lussuria stared at the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know that what I've done is unforgivable. _I'm _unforgivable."

"Yes, you are." Death smiled. "But I forgive you anyway."

"You do?!" Lussuria looked up and stared at Death.

"Yes." It beamed at him. "Whether you atone for your sins or not is truly of no concern to me. All I ask is that you serve me faithfully." Death's otherworldly eyes, incongruous in a human face, glittered at him. "Become a killer, Lussuria. Become an _assassin_. Deliver corpses to my doorstep, and I will give you what you desire."

Lussuria could hardly breathe for his disbelief. How fortunate he was, to be let off the hook so easily. And what a generous act of mercy from Death. He bowed deeply. "Thank you very much," he murmured.

"Oh, you're most welcome." Death grabbed the corpse. "You won't be able to get away with it this time, so I'll be taking this. Rest assured, there will come a day when you no longer have to hide your true nature."

"Understood." Lussuria bowed again. Then, with a cackle of laughter, Death left with the corpse slung over its shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Dazed, Lussuria stared out the nearest window. The sun was slowly rising, like a giant fireball. He stared at it until his eyes hurt. The sunlight glinted off a pair of sunglasses, which someone had abandoned on a windowsill. He hadn't noticed them before. Now, he reached out, picked them up and put them on. With his eyes hidden behind dark lenses, he looked and felt different.

Leaving the room without a backwards glance, he failed to notice a large raven enter the room through the window. It perched on the back of a tattered armchair, opened its great beak and let out a caw that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

Since birth, Leviathan has been true to his name. He is the epitome of envy, and this fundamental part of his nature, like any other sin, was what led him to Death.

In his teens, he was even more awkward than your average typical adolescent. Unpopular and disadvantaged, he spent most of his time doing odd jobs to sustain himself in a low-income family and hankering after a beautiful woman in an upper-class neighbourhood. He became hopelessly infatuated with her after she hired him as her chauffeur. Unlike her peers, she never spoke to him with disdain or looked down her nose at him with contempt. Despite being the daughter of the snobbiest couple he had ever known, she always had a kind word for him. And so he fell for her, like a row of dominos taking the fall for each other, one after another.

In his heart of hearts, though, he knew it simply wasn't meant to be. She was like the sky, brilliant and ever-present yet forever unreachable. Besides, she had a fiancé-an appropriately handsome and wealthy aristocrat. Blue-blooded, as his parents would say. He contented himself with driving her to and fro, stealing glances at her in the rear-view mirror all the while.

One fateful weekend, however, his life made a U-turn more abrupt than any he had ever made. The lady began flirting with him. First suggestive gestures and revealing clothing, then a hand on his knee much more often than was strictly necessary, and the whole affair eventually culminated in them doing the horizontal tango in the backseat of the very same car he drove her around in. Afterwards, she lit a cigarette with trembling hands and avoided his gaze.

"Was it good for you?" he asked. Such a clichéd and cheesy thing to say, but as always, he felt tongue-tied around her and couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yes," she replied, but she still didn't look at him. Rolling down one of the car windows, she leaned out and exhaled plumes of smoke. He watched her, feeling wary.

She never spoke to him or made eye contact with him again. It was as if their brief sexual encounter had never really happened. She fulfilled her parents' wishes and married the aristocrat they had chosen for her. The newlyweds behaved very much like a young couple in love. It hurt Levi to see them like that, wounded him deeply. How could she just use him as a plaything, a tool to satisfy her needs and easily discarded without a second thought? And how dare her new husband just swoop in and take her away from him effortlessly? Resentment and envy coalesced into hatred and simmered until he reached boiling point.

One night, the couple attended a party, one of the many so-called "charity" galas that were really just an excuse for socialites to show off their latest designer handbags, haute couture gowns and golf club memberships. As they returned to their mansion, a little drunk and giggling like teenagers, Levi leapt out from behind a bush in their ridiculously large garden and stabbed them to death. Neither even had a chance to scream. It was all over within seconds and, sickened by what he had done yet also insanely exhilarated, Levi promptly fled the scene before the neighbours or the servants noticed anything amiss.

The long arm of the law, however, caught up with him a few days later and after a cursory trial, he was put on death row. Languishing in his cell, he spent his days brooding over his short, troubled life. Then, on the eve of his execution date, Death paid him a visit and everything changed again.

"You have a visitor," one of the prison guards tersely informed him.

"Who is it?" he asked. His parents had renounced him as their son, and he had no other relatives nor any friends. He couldn't imagine who his visitor could be.

Instead of answering, the guard stepped back and bowed in the direction of Levi's own visitor. "He's all yours, my lord Xanxus."

"Indeed," the visitor replied, not taking his eyes off Levi. "You may leave." The guard bowed again and left.

Levi went up to his cell door and peered between the bars. Xanxus looked back at him steadily. Both men were silent for a moment as they sized each other up.

"So," Xanxus said presently. "You're the famously vengeful ex-lover I've heard so much about."

Levi steeled himself to meet the other man's cold red stare. "I am."

Xanxus smirked and cast a speculative glance around the prison. "This place doesn't amount to much. It's certainly a poor excuse for one's site of death." He looked back at Levi. "I can get you out of here."

Levi stared at him. "How?"

"Oh, you know…a loophole here, some useful connections there…" Xanxus shrugged. "The usual Mafia stuff."

Levi's eyes widened. "The Mafia? You're in the Mafia?"

"Oh, I'm not just _in _it." Xanxus's red eyes shone with a maniacal gleam, but he didn't elaborate. "Tell you what. I'll have you out of here by tonight, if you promise to serve me faithfully in exchange."

"Are you a…don?" Levi asked tentatively.

Xanxus smirked appreciatively. "You know a little about the ways of _Cosa Nostra_, I see. No, I am not a don…yet. But I will be."

Despite himself, Levi was impressed. For all their violence and cruelty, the Mafia had a rather impressive public image, and images of well-dressed, cigar-smoking men surrounded by worshipful subordinates now ran through Levi's mind. And if this man, Xanxus, was going to be a don…well. At that moment, if Xanxus had told him to jump, he would have answered "How high?" It was the beginning of a long and beautiful (to Levi, at least) relationship.

"I will serve you for the rest of my life," Levi promised.

"Good." Xanxus inclined his head regally, like a king accepting a subject's adulation. "Well, then. Wait here. I'll have a word with the people keeping you here."

Levi nodded eagerly, and waited patiently. Hours ticked by and he began to have doubts. What if Xanxus had been lying? What if this was all some elaborate hoax? But in the end, Xanxus came through for him and as night fell, Levi collected his few possessions and stepped back into the world outside the prison walls, once again a free man.

"We have no time to lose," Xanxus said curtly. "Board the midnight train at the nearest station, alight at the terminus and ask the oldest porter you see there for directions to a hotel on the south coast. He'll tell you where to go from there."

"Yes, sir." Levi bowed and obediently trotted away to carry out his new boss's instructions. As he left, he felt a cold hand brush against his cheek and turned, expecting to see Xanxus beside him. But no one was in sight and Xanxus was walking away in the opposite direction. Levi frowned. Maybe, just maybe, it had been his imagination.


	5. Chapter 5

Prince the Ripper. That is his nickname, which he wears like a crown. Slaughtering the guilty and the innocent alike, aiming straight for the dark, throbbing heart of the Mafia. Laughing gleefully as his victims fall like bowling pins and spray blood all over his expensive clothes. But it wasn't always like this. Oh, no. Belphegor distinctly remembers his dark god, the one who urged him to continue on this twisted career path.

Rasiel, that pathetic excuse for a twin, was slain by his own hands, and whenever he thinks of that, how everything was painful and glorious and _red everywhere_, he starts laughing and can't stop. Then he slits his wrists, not because he's depressed but because he's _happy_. Ecstatic, even. He loves remembering how he killed his dear older brother, and the sight of his own blood does more for him than any drug ever could. He also loves remembering how Death gave him an indulgent smile, the kind of smile teacher's pets and favourite children are always on the receiving end of. The tables have turned and Belphegor dances on the bodies of his enemies as Death laughs alongside him.


	6. Chapter 6

In the manner of a snake entwined with the darkness in human hearts-a legendary _ouroboros_, if you will-Mammon considers himself shaped by his illusionist skills, and quite understandably so. Since he was in the crib, all manner of otherworldly beings have been whispering to him, advising him how to deceive, extort and betray, allowing him to play on people's imaginations and get what he wants. So it should come as no surprise that he is all too familiar with Death.

In the future that Byakuran tried and failed to create, Mammon killed himself and remembers all too well the darkness after he plunged a knife (borrowed from Belphegor) into his chest, in despair over everyone's predicament. He remembers how Death cradled him like a child, its expression in that hellish face inscrutable. How he clung to it and saw it as both of the parents he once had, the kindly humans whom he had outlived after the Arcobaleno curse prolonged his life, something he had never asked for. It never spoke to him, but Mammon instinctively understood it. And when it released him back into the human world, he flew away with a rare smile and waited for Yuni's summons.


	7. Chapter 7

Pain has always eluded Fran's grasp. He is fascinated by it, does everything in his power to inflict it on himself and make others hurt him, but it is like water slipping through his fingers. Once, only once, did he even come close to experiencing it for himself.

Fran's parents are like pain to him, really-he is aware of their existence but sees them as abstract concepts, not tangible beings, similar to the bogeyman or zombies or what have you. He spent his formative years in the care of his kind but senile grandmother. She mostly left him to his own devices, and he grew to enjoy playing by himself in the lonely, beautiful wilderness of Jura. Inevitably, one day as his grandmother dozed on their warm hearth, Fran very nearly drowned. He felt nothing more than mild curiosity about the afterlife while sinking in the icy depths of a glacial lake. _Oh, I'm dying. Yippee. I wonder what the other side is like. Can spirits eat cheese? _

Suddenly, someone or something grabbed the top of his hat and yanked him upwards. Startled, he tried to escape but couldn't; his would-be rescuer had too tight a hold on him. Still locked in a tussle, they resurfaced and Fran spat out lake water, wiping his mouth vigorously.

"You don't treasure your life very much, do you?"

Fran looked over at the person whom he now owed his life to. A boy around his own age, with a sardonic expression not unlike his own, crouched a few feet away from him. Later, Fran would struggle to remember what the boy's appearance had been. He slipped through Fran's mind like the lake water, nothing Fran could possibly hold on to.

"No, I don't." Fran answered the boy's question, though it seemed like a rhetorical one.

"That's too bad. A lot of geniuses off themselves early in the game, and the world is worse off for that." The boy looked at Fran intently. "By the way, I'm Death."

"Death? Really?" Fran said sceptically.

"Really." Death held out a hand. "If you need proof, why don't you shake my hand and we'll see what happens."

Torn between amusement and scepticism, Fran obligingly shook Death's hand. Immediately, a sharp pain coursed through him and he screamed, writhing in agony. Death stood over him, its face a mask of anger.

"Do you understand now?" Death shouted. "This is what you wanted, Fran. To absorb pain, to know pain. Burn this into your memories. _Feel_."

Death then stopped tormenting Fran and offered to help Fran up. Fran gave it an anguished look, shook his head and stood on his own. "What was that for?" he whimpered.

"To teach you." Death smiled gently. "Oh, you think I'm cruel, and I don't blame you. But." It turned and stared out over the lake. "This is an important lesson for you, Fran. You have always been obsessed with pain and dying. Life is so much more precious than you think."

Fran closed his eyes. He wanted to go home, wake his grandmother, and share a homemade French meal with her. He'd even do his share of the housework, for once. Anything to get away from this…whatever it was. "I understand," he said weakly. "May I leave now?"

"Very well." Death dipped a pale, slender foot in the still lake water, causing a small ripple. "Do not forget what I have taught you."

Fran said nothing and turned to leave. As he walked away, he heard an enormous splash from the lake, but did not look back. He determinedly shoved the encounter into the back of his mind, but every now and then, as he grew older, someone would question why he was unable to feel pain and he would uncharacteristically be at a loss for words.


	8. Chapter 8

The Varia know Death inside out. They know what it likes and dislikes. They are its senders, recipients and messengers all at once. It observes them when they kill and listens to them breathe. It is the first thing they think of when they wake and the last thing they speak of before they sleep.

Death is the reason why Xanxus drifts towards warm places like a beast returning to its cave and ignites the Flame of Wrath on his palms the moment winter arrives; Squalo has learned to cherish his life; Lussuria feels no remorse for preferring dead partners over live ones; Leviathan worships the ground Xanxus walks on; Belphegor blurs the boundaries between pain and pleasure to make killing a truly _exceptional _experience; Mammon has vowed never to try killing himself again; and Fran no longer feels pain though he remembers very clearly what it feels like. Their lives are all inextricably connected to Death in one way or another. They laugh when one or more of them has a near-death experience, because from their perspective, it is as if the missing officers just went out for a quick visit to an old friend. Because they understand Death and willingly burrow under the folds of its cloak.

If a guest were to stay with them, he would notice that sometimes, during dinner, they set an extra place and glance at each other in a way that acknowledges a silent mutual understanding. Or that when they walk down a hallway, they tend to glance around as if expecting to see someone watching them. But when asked, their answers are rather odd. For instance, Squalo would shrug and look away, then…

"I can't tell you," is what he might say, as a raven flies past the Varia headquarters. "But if Death ever visits us, we won't hesitate to let it in."


End file.
